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Freyja, named after the Norse Goddess of Love, Lust and Beauty, is run by the Companion Guild as a chapter house in space. The ship is looking for a Pilot, a Maintenance technician, a Licensed doctor, a security officer, a bartender, some Companion teachers, and apprentices.

Date of Birth: 17th April 2487, but he has no idea what his age is, so if you ask he’ll only guess.

Place of birth: A French-speaking ghetto in a semi-rural backwater of Beaumonde.

Appearance

Jean’s a tall man, with blue eyes, brown hair, and a chronic case of male Resting Bitch Face. He’s a surly-looking bastard at the best of times, though occasionally the planets will align enough to allow a rare smile. Blue-eyes and unusually good bone structure are the only things to help to soften his roughened, bearded face, while the the stress of the last few months has started to wear on him heavily giving him the appearance of someone always just too-short of sleep.

His body is a testament to the life he's lead. He’s well built, approximately six foot, with the sort of tone that speaks of years of hard work, or at least a certain dedication to keeping in shape. His skin is dotted with scars, inflicted by everything from burns, bayonets, shrapnel, knives, and bullet wounds. Likewise, his hands and knuckles are bent and heavily scarred, projecting just the right amount of “don’t fuck with me” to stop folks asking too many questions.

His accent is a complete mess: a lyrical hybrid of bastard French, the occasional Rimworld twang, Chinese and French curses, questionable grammar, and the odd word or phase dropped with enough Alliance pretentiousness to raise eyebrows. Once upon a time he might have tried to modulate himself to sound like a proper Alliance asshole, but, well, not much point now-days, is there?

Like most, he tends to default to a certain set of gear. A dark blue armoured jacket has become his go-to, and he’s sure as shit paranoid enough not to leave the ship without ballistic mesh under his shirt. Though, in his defence, he’s got good reason to be paranoid. Sure enough, someone always seems to end up shooting at him. Any other battle-worthy or military castoffs are fair game, and it’s rare to find him not packing at least some sort of sidearm. Can you still call it paranoid if you’re usually right?

Personality

A cheery bundle of fun. Why?

Fine. “Rough around the edges” is the quickest summary. Jean’s been through a lot, leaving him one remarkably bitter and jaded individual who barely resembles the man staunchly noble man he once was. Add in a bucket of self hatred, a heaping of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Survivors Guilt, and top it with a tendency for French-laden profanity, and you got Jean in a nutshell.

The sad thing is, if you knew Jean even six months ago, you’d wonder how the Hell he got this way. He’s not even quite sure of it himself. Once a Navy man, assigned to the IAV Caduceus with the task of defending the reaches of the 'Verse from those who would exploit it — pirates, smugglers, slavers — these days it's hard to tell him apart from the very men he used to hunt. It was never a conscious decision. It just... happened. First due to circumstances, then every misdeed made it easier to commit the next. He's painfully aware of this, and the reality of his new life as a pirate Captain weighs on him heavily, contributing to his rapidly-souring demeanour.

If anyone feels the need to sit and observe, they might make some educated guesses. He’s painfully obviously ex-military, in everything from his tightly clipped answers, the airtight lid he keeps on himself and his emotions, and even in the rigid way he stands. Plus, despite being a pirate, he seems to harbour a remarkably honed notion for justice, and is usually the first to step up to someone’s defence.

So how do you justify trying to be a good man while simultaneously blasting someone out of an airlock?

Simple.

Try not to think about it.

Skills

Job: Full time Captain of the Black Echo, part time facebreaker.

Jean started life with the Alliance 3rd Battalion 5th Marines where he received a Battlefield Commission. After the conclusion of of the Unification, he transferred to the 4th Fleet, Alliance Navy, engaging in Peacekeeping and Military Policing Operations around the Rim.

His training reflects this. As well as a thorough combat knowledge, he's got some ability in piloting from his time with Navy, and basic knowledge on how to patch minor issues with ships, or act as a field medic if the need arises. Unfortunately "real world" skills are light on the ground.

Note: Jean was built using Serenity RPG Mechanics, where these skills are taken from. See Other Notes for full sheet.

History

----------2499. You get used to the dirt.

Blood mixes in with dirt and teeth. Jean’s fist connects with the other boy's face again and again; cutting skin and knuckle. The boy under him is pinned to the ground beneath Jean’s legs as they roll around in the dirty street. His nose is broken. His teeth are bent. The boy might have been pleading, but Jean rams another fist to his face and puts an end to that.

Men rush over, yanking the children apart. Words are said. Jean’s fists are still clenched so hard they hurt. They get the story out of them eventually. “He’s a thief!” Jean spits, trying to wrench free. He wants to hit him again. But they won’t let him. The adults have put an end to that too.

Jean runs home, the rescued solenoid clutched in oil-smeared arms like treasure. There’s dirt on his nose, in his face, in his cuts and in his hair. There’s filth on his Père’s face too, when he shakes his head and smiles.

“You didn’t have to chase him.”

Jean scowls. “Yes I did.”

Père knows his son’s right. They don’t have enough money for a replacement, and the desperate people of this Beaumonde backwater have stolen more than parts from them in the last few weeks. “Fit it back into the engine, s'il te plaît?”

It’s only a few nuts and bolts here and there to put the solenoid back. Jean’s cheek itches, and he leaves a smear of grease on his face when he tries to scratch. While he works, he watches Père, glancing every now and then at the haggard lines in his father's face.

“Papa?”

“Oui?”

“Do we have enough to eat tonight?”

The question breaks Père’s heart, just like it does every night. “Don’t think so, mon lapin. Maybe tomorrow night.”

----------2511. You get used to the blood.

It's the fourth shell that nearly kills him. The bomb hits the nearby tree like an angry fist of God. Wood splits asunder with a terrifying crack, the explosion not quite covering the sound of screams.

Blood churns into the mud. Brown fields have turned red. Jean doesn't even register the pile of bodies any more as he drags himself up over them.

"FLANKING POSITION", he roars, spitting blood.

There'll be more dead soon. His own men. More blood in the dirt. All so that the big-boys up at command can congratulate him and give him another shiny new medal for putting down this Unification uprising on the ass-end of the Rim. All for another war he doesn't believe in. Lives don't mean much really. It's all just a giant game of chess.

"Hey, purple belly!" Some other wannabe hero who thinks he can end this battle here and now. Jean’s bayonet cracks through his skull; another warm spray to paint his face and uniform in bold red colours.

He won't remember this boy's face. He's dead now, just like all the others.

What would Père say? His only son in the Marines to escape the poverty. To escape the dirt. The son in uniform, standing proud and promoted. And why? All for the money? For a chance at real power? For a real life.

Jean takes a deep breath, pulling the bayonet loose with a crunch. The blood drips down his face, across his lips and onto his tongue.

Dirt makes you no one. Yet blood makes you someone.

Dirt for blood. Blood for glory.

Is that all there is?

----------2516. You get used to the betrayal.

They’re lying.

They’ve been lying this whole time.

It’s a strange thing to focus on. Here. Now. Yells and screams and horror, blood pouring down the walls.

Their ship has been boarded. Boarded by creatures that aren’t supposed to exist. But it’s too late now — too late to get away. They’re all dead. The copilot; torn apart. The cook; who had to eat his own limbs. Even the gunner, better off dead if he isn’t already after what they did to him.

Reavers don’t take no quarter.

And if Jean doesn’t do something now, the rest of them are dead too.

His Captain’s hand never makes it to the distress signal before the vutt of Jean's pistol collides against his head, the blow catching him in the side of the jaw, loosening teeth and sending him sprawling. His eyes bug, trying to scramble to his feet, just as Jean's rough, calloused hand close over his mouth, fingers digging in, cutting off an attempt to scream.

It’s not enough to simply slit a man’s throat if you want him dead. The human body is more resilient than you'd think. The Captain deserves better. Even Jean knows it's not fair. But there's no more ammunition, and no other way.

Jean’s knife plunges into the side of his Captain’s neck, sick, wet sound, slicing muscle and sinew. The blade grinds where it scrapes against bone, the end bursting clean from the other side of his throat. He tries to scream, high pitched and panicked, the cry muffled by Jean’s hand where it covers his nose and mouth. Kicking, thrashing, hands clawing at Jean’s wrist, but his grip is as unrelenting as iron.

All it takes is a sharp wrench up, the blade slicing, sawing through the windpipe of his throat, cutting both arteries, pulling free with a savage spray of blood that splatters the front of Jean’s coat.

Muffled screams turn to gurgles, the hands pawing at Jean’s wrist weaken as his blood sprays, showering both their hands, slick and wet, glinting in the artificial light.

Jean never takes his eyes off the dying man’s face. He recognises the look in those eyes. He’s seen it before; more than once. Disbelief, fear, panic, fading away, as the light within them dies.

And he hopes — Christ, to any God that’ll listen — that he’s made the right decision.

He’s got no intention of dying today.

----------2517. You get used to the infamy.

They say God has a plan for us all.

Is this it? Is this their path? Or is this the Devil showing his hand?

They’re all fugitives now, like it or not. Mutiny doesn’t go down well to the Alliance, regardless of whether you’re being made to follow the orders of a madman.

At first it’s just those that look easy and not liable to raise suspicion. Just enough to keep themselves going. But then what’s one cargo ship? What’s one more? With a crew of ex-military and hardened cutthroats, the early pickings are far too easy. Then when the crew gets the taste of money, and there’s no stopping it any more; no turning back.

The mid bulk Hanover has seen them far too late, floating at 037 mark 10, pitched on a slight lean. The pilot flicks a series of switches to commence docking protocol, but Jean’s eyes are fixed unblinkingly on that ship, like a predator watching prey. Their thrusters fire in earnest, but no matter how fast they fly, the Black Echo looms behind them; a shadow of death, and he its master.

They’re not smugglers. Not quite. Jean can’t even lie to himself himself about that anymore.

There’s the word. On the end of everyone’s tongue, unspoken, but they all know it.

Pirate.

Black Echo indeed. The Caduceus reborn. Once an Alliance fighter, rebirthed, repurposed, turned on its former masters and all those unfortunate enough to end up in her wake. A new lease on life.

But the bloodstains of history are not so easily washed away.

It’s a necessary evil, Jean has decided. Everyone needs to survive in this world. And what else is left when you have nowhere else to go?

The final message comes as the chase cannons from the Black Echo sing, deafening in their power. The blast crashes into the side of the Courier's side with unrelenting force and a shower of sparks that rain inside the hull. The lights go dark. The engines falter. It'll be easier on their crew if they don't struggle.

2517, The Unification War has been over for a decade and Miranda is still a secret. Into The Black is an Alternate Universe Firefly & Serenity fandom roleplaying game. It centers around independent crews of different ships which travel all over the 'verse created by Joss Whedon.